Sicklock
by Don'tMessWithAFangirl
Summary: Sherlock has a sore throat. Sick!lock, High School AU, Johnlock. Rated T because I'm cautious like that. Pre-slash.


_**A/N:**_

_**So I have been REALLY REALLY awful lately.**_

_**I promise that AoD and GSRC WILL BE DONE! Just... not yet.**_

_**They're in the works, I swear, they're just being bloody difficult and I have done so much this summer and now I will have to go back to school and work even harder to boost up my grades so...**_

_**I'm sorry, this has no relevence to this fic.**_

**Here's the proper A/N:**

**So I had an idea for a fic and started planning the first paragraph late last night. Then, I fell asleep and dreamed that I was typing and when I woke up there was a ~2500 fic on my computer… I think I just sleep-wrote a fanfiction…?**

**Anyway, it wasn't complete shit and it was my first Johnlock fanfiction, so I figured I'd post it. Enjoy!**

Sherlock had only had a sore throat once before. It was a Saturday, and it wasn't even horrible, though he pretended it was to guilt John into doing things for him. The symptoms were there when he woke up, so he simply texted John first thing to make him come over and take care of him. Then, throughout the day he would text John whenever he needed tea or if he wanted his pillow turned. The older boy was very indulgent with Sherlock, making sure he had what he needed and that he wasn't overtaxing himself, while still getting appropriately annoyed whenever he pushed it just a little too far ("Sherlock! I'm not going to help you shower! I don't care if you can't lift your arms; take a bath!"). He wanted to be a doctor when he grew up, so it was good practice. Anyway, the sore throat was gone before the end of Sunday, and it was like it never happened.

Getting a sore throat during a weekday, though, was much, much different. First of all, he wasn't allowed to use his cell phone to communicate, so he was forced to carry around a little 8X11 whiteboard and an expo marker; second, John wasn't allowed to take care of him all day, and third, his teachers absolutely refused to make him tea.

It started as soon as he walked to his locker, really. He and John had started sharing John's locker half-way into the first week of school because Sherlock refused to walk all the way to the H section and then down to the W section between each class, and the school wouldn't allow him to bully Dakota White into changing lockers with him.

As he did each day, Sherlock stormed down the hall in an out-of-place black trench coat that he absolutely didn't swish about dramatically. This time, he sourly held a white board in front of his chest as if taking a mug shot. No one could read the entire paragraph scrawled messily on the slate quickly enough before he passed them entirely, but everyone was curious. When Sherlock finally stopped in front of his (John's) locker, John snatched the whiteboard up without a word and read the whole thing.

"Sherlock, that's disgusting! Just say that you have a sore throat and be done with it!" John protested, wiping the paragraph away with his knitted sleeve. Sherlock grabbed the board in frustration and started to write furiously.

"But that's not the whole story! I spent a good portion of time researching my symptoms." Sherlock replied, his face betraying a whining quality to the words. Obviously he had expected praise for deducing so much about his ailment in only a night with mere hints of a few symptoms. John just sighed.

"That's great for you, but not everyone here wants to hear about your phlegm and where it is and why that is 'impeding your abilities to speak'." He explained. Easing the whiteboard out of Sherlock's hands, he erased it again and wrote 'I have a sore throat and cannot speak'. "There. That's all you need."

The curly-haired teen procured a tissue from his pocket and wiped away John's message in a few swift strokes, replacing it with a "BORING" that took up the whole surface. John couldn't help a fond yet exasperated smile, and together they found the right balance of information and decency to placate both sides.

By the end of the first class period, the residual happiness from Sherlock's morning conversation with John had been entirely stomped out. The pain in his throat twanged every time he swallowed, and all of his snarky comments went unnoticed because he couldn't write fast enough for them to be timed properly and nobody bothered to read his board anyway. And then of course there were the barbs aimed towards him about how nice it was to have a 'Silent Sherlock' for once.

On top of all that, John wasn't there to pass notes or make him tea (not that he would have been allowed to during class) or even just smile at him occasionally. Things were dull.

By the middle of the second class period, Sherlock was ready to shoot the walls. He never bothered to pay attention in class lest he run the risk of having his brain cluttered. No, it was much better to read the textbook the day before a test and delete all the information immediately after. Unfortunately, this meant he had to just sit there in the classroom without listening to the teacher and with nothing to do. Snarky comments made the class just barely bearable and without those, he was at his wits end.

"I NEED TO GO TO THE RESTROOM" He wrote on his infernal board, holding it high to get the teacher's attention. She nodded at him, glad to get him and his endless fidgeting out of her class.

Sherlock burst out of the room, most definitely not swishing his trench coat. Freedom! But where to go?

The answer was obvious.

John was in math for period two, just a floor up from where Sherlock had been taking English. When Sherlock got to the room, he peered in through the window on the door. John was bored but he was taking notes as best as possible.

A few of John's classmates noticed Sherlock and one of them nudged the blonde and pointed subtly at him while the teacher's back was turned. Through lip-reading he could have found out that the nameless classmate had commented "Your boyfriend's here." to John, but Sherlock couldn't care less about said nameless classmate. He only scribbled "You have to go to the restroom, John –SH" on his board, formatting it as if he was sending a text, and set it flat against the door window.

John was blushing in embarrassment, most of his class had seen the board by now, but he rolled his eyes and raised his hand and asked the thankfully-clueless teacher if he could use the restroom. Of course he could, unless he had developed a disorder that Sherlock didn't know about in the last 18 hours. Silly John.

When Sherlock was finally joined by his companion, the first thing he did was hold up his finger in the universal sign for 'wait a moment' and scribbled "I'm bored." on his slate.

"Well that's no reason to order me out of class!" John retorted, more annoyed at the ordering than the out-of-class part.

"My throat hurts" Sherlock wrote.

"Well then go to the nurse and get a lozenge!"

"You're my doctor."

John sighed and gave Sherlock one of those puzzling half-smiles.

"Sherlock," He said. "If you're sick enough to need a doctor, you should either a) stay home, or b) consult a professional doctor."

"a) You're not home. b) You're my doctor. I don't like repeating myself, John." Sherlock looked about as close to a sulk as he got, the sickness obviously loosening the iron grip he had on his sentimentality.

"I'm not skipping my classes because you're bored." John finally replied. "I'll take you down to the nurse to get a lozenge and we'll loiter a bit and then it will be time for physics and we can pass notes, okay?"

Without writing anything, Sherlock turned and started walking towards the nurses' office, not even questioning if John would follow.

They strolled down the halls leisurely, both barely resisting the urge to hold hands. It was just something they did when they were unwatched, with no intent behind it, but John had explained to Sherlock very carefully in Second grade that if they continued to hold hands in school people would talk.

"You're not usually this bad. It can't be just the sickness." John started musing, a few minutes into their stroll. "What about being mute could irk you so much…"

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow, intrigued by John's mini-mystery. Usually, it was Sherlock who was the detective, although John was always his trusty sidekick (even if he would get punched if he called John a sidekick).

"You're usually pretty quiet, and you don't answer questions in class, so it's not that." One could practically see the wheels turning in John's head. They were almost to the nurses' office now. "When do you talk? When do you- Ohhhhh! You're just pissy because you can't humiliate people anymore!"

Sherlock huffed and started scribbling "I don't humili-" but John cut him off.

"Yes you do." At more Sherlock huffing, John amended. "Okay, so you don't directly humiliate. Often. But was it really necessary to reveal that cheerleader's sexual exploits to the entire grade last week? And what about the principal's porn habit or that poor teacher's childhood or that other teacher's home life?"

John paused when he saw the faint glimmer of guilt in Sherlock's eye and redirected his conclusions.

"No wait. Those are just things you casually say. You don't mean them earnestly, you're just proud to have figured things out. You wouldn't miss them because you don't mean to say them." And then, a spark. "Oh but you miss having the last word!" John laughed. "You're pouting because you can't tell the teacher when she's wrong or inform a classmate that he's a moron! It's about insulting people!"

Sherlock tried to stay annoyed at John, but he was (at least partially) correct and he looked so excited about solving his little case.

"You're an idiot." He scrawled gracefully before erasing it and striding into the nurses' office, demanding a lozenge with his slate.

The next few classes they had together, and Sherlock just barely survived the class before lunch. After being released from the excruciating hell of British History, Sherlock walked briskly over to his (John's) locker and placed his pen and notebook (the only supplied he ever carried with him to class) into it.

"Are you ready?" He asked John via whiteboard.

"Sure" The sweater-clad teen replied easily, dumping his ungodly amount of school supplies into the locker and closing it with some effort.

They had an easy lunch, deciding to both write on the whiteboard in an online-chat-room style, not erasing anything until the board was filled down to the bottom of the surface. John had watery pasta and Sherlock half-heartedly picked at some meatballs.

_You should eat more _

_I'm not hungry _

_You haven't eaten since lunch yesterday when I forced a sandwich down your throat. This is probably why you're sick. _

_It hurts to eat. And that sandwich is probably why I'm sick. You crammed it down my throat too hard. _

_You know that isn't true. You yourself provided a detailed explanation as to why your throat hurts so much this morning. _

_That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to eat. _

_Who's the doctor here? Just cut it up into smaller pieces and wash it down with some tea. _

_Make me tea. _

_Lazy sod._

John was already getting up and going to get a teabag. It was not his favorite way of making tea, dunking a teabag into hot water, he much preferred a proper kettle and a strainer for the tea leaves, but it was all he could get at a cafeteria. Getting a mug for himself, John made his way back to Sherlock.

"Got the tea, you lazy sod." He said it aloud as he sat down, setting one of the disposable mugs in front of Sherlock.

_You used that one already._

John laughed brightly and sat down.

A bit later in their conversation, their good friend Antonio came over and set a fake flower down between them in a simple plastic vase. "More romantic." He claimed, no malice in the words, just pure sentiment.

"I'm not gay! Why does everyone think I'm gay!" John protested.

Antonio just looked at him, then looked pointedly at Sherlock, then back to him. He left with a shrug, not taking the flower with him. John huffed but he allowed it to stay.

After lunch was another tedious class, then a note-passing class with John.

John admitted that it was his fault. He should have been stealthier with his note-passing, but he genuinely didn't expect Mrs. Berinson to turn around just at that moment that he had leaned over to deliver his reply. It was the worst possible note for him to get caught on. Well… not the worst, but definitely not something he wanted read to the class out of context (on within context for that matter). Want or not, he was forced to give it up to Mrs. Berinson with burning ears and a more-than-pink face.

She eyed the note for a second, then gave John a raised eyebrow. Her mouth quirked at the edges, betraying her amusement.

"I told you, I'm not going to shower you just because you have a sore throat." It was a witty reference to a previous conversation, and it wasn't even all that bad, but the way Mrs. Berinson said it made John want to crawl under a rock and die. Her voice was chastising, slightly teasing, and incredibly amused but trying not to be. It was **mortifying**. And the worst thing was that Sherlock didn't seem to register the innuendo, the way it could be misconstrued. He just looked slightly annoyed at John for getting caught note-passing and almost as amused as Mrs. Berinson at John's vicious blush. The class was cat-calling and laughing. A boy next to John nudged him and whispered "Dude, in class? Seriously?".

_'Kill me now'_ John just thought, placing on his best poker face despite his blush.

After that fiasco, it was mercifully the end of the school day. Already, the rumor mill churned out blatant lies that John and Sherlock had been passing pornographic commentary about what they would be doing after school in class and that Mrs. Berinson had almost fainted when she read it. Other stories reported that John was a devious top at home, despite his knitted sweaters and friendly attitude and that he made Sherlock beg for anything sexual (whilst naked and bound in some stories). It all made John terribly embarrassed. He continuously wished that he had never written such a loaded comment.

"My throat still hurts. Come home and make me tea." Sherlock demanded on his whiteboard. John had almost forgotten Sherlock's throat, and he instantly felt bad about it. But…

"Do you really want to feed the rumors?" John asked, reluctant to go home with his apparent-boyfriend.

"I don't care about rumors. My throat hurts."

"Yes. You said that already." John sighed. "I'm going to walk home. If you happen to kidnap me halfway to my house, it isn't my fault."

Apparently, Sherlock didn't have the patience to wait for halfway, because he kidnapped him after only one block. The ride home was peaceful, and quiet because they reverted to the whiteboard writing they were doing during lunch. When they reached Sherlock's home, John made tea (the proper way this time) and Sherlock laid down, picking up his cell phone.

From then on it was like that one Saturday. They shared jokes and drank tea and when Sherlock was too raw to laugh he smirked and tickled John mercilessly to share the pain and John pretended to mind. For a moment, they ended up really close, their faces mere inches apart, and they both held their breaths and hoped for someone (not) to pull away. Then Sherlock coughed and John ran to get him water and balance was restored for a moment.

It was a quiet, easy afternoon and if John had to come to school with a bag of lozenges, a whiteboard and expo marker the next day, well at least they each had one this time.

**A/N: Please review!**


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